


Reinventing Your Exit

by naturallymorbid



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Administration, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Attempted Murder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, From Sex to Love, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Post-John Wick (2014), Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Rough Sex, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29583774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturallymorbid/pseuds/naturallymorbid
Summary: You were not the scariest thing in the dark. You were, however, standing at the house of the scariest thing in the dark. Baba Yaga.You were part of Administration until someone tries to destroy just you personally. Everyone knows John escaped once and you’re hoping he can help, but at what cost?Alternate Universe
Relationships: John Wick/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	1. all the good girls go to hell

**Author's Note:**

> So, when I get stuck on other fics I’m working on, I write ones just to keep my brain busy and sort through things. Next to John, The Administration part of his world is my second favorite.
> 
> So, this is more like you are borrowing someone’s skin. It will be more specific, description-wise, than some of my other POV stuff because it’s part of the story line I have planned. Anyway, more nervous about this one than I am about a lot of my stuff. 
> 
> Chapters might be short at first and then get longer. Content warnings for sensitive topics.

CW: none

  
You were not the scariest thing in the dark. You were, however, standing at the house of the scariest thing in the dark. Baba Yaga. 

That line from Halloween drifted through your mind, “You can’t kill the Boogeyman.”

Good.

You breathed in the crisp fall air and carried yourself to the door as best you could. From top to bottom, there wasn’t a part of you that wasn’t bruised or bloody. The air made your lungs ache but at least you were still alive, for now.

The cab driver had thrown a fit about the blood and the distance but you had thrown plenty of money at him and that seemed to shut him up. You had needed to get out of the city, fast. 

You told the cab driver the first place you could think of, Baba Yaga’s house in Mill Neck. You would be safest there. Everyone in the business knew he was not to be bothered, which is why it was perfect. 

Everyone in Administration knew the Boogeyman; you had handled his file more times than you could count. You knew what he was capable of, where his loyalties lay. That he had escaped. 

Honestly, you didn’t know if this would work but you had to try. He had retired after all. 

You also knew that he was alone; Winston had the file updated to show his wife was dead, the things he had done to the Tarasovs recently to keep his freedom. 

That wasn’t why you were going to The Devil first though. In fact, it made you more cautious to approach him. You figured this was about as smart as approaching a sleeping bear. 

But something inside of you said it would be okay. Or, you would be dead soon. Either way. 

You sucked in another breath and wheezed, trying to placate the stabbing pain from your ribs. 

You knocked on the white door with glass inserts, realizing you were leaving small swipes of blood from your knuckles. Your vision blurred for a second. 

Blood in your eye? You swiped it away but it was still blurry. Your head ached and a wave of nausea washed over you. Gripping the door frame, you managed to stay upright. More blood, marking his pristine white doorframe. 

The door opened and John Wick stared down at you, a smattering of half-healed wounds on his face. 

Your first thought was,  _he’s just human after all._

Your second thought was,  _wow it’s getting..._

Then everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2: the blood you bleed is just the blood you owe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knew he couldn’t get the police involved, probably not even Jimmy who looked after him in this neck of the woods.
> 
> Confused but unwilling to leave you wounded, he hoisted you up on his shoulder in a fireman carry and brought you inside. You were not an obvious threat anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t had time or energy to work on this in the last week. Got into a serious accident, so now I have nothing but time and need something to keep my mind busy from falling into despair at all the things I can’t do for a while. 
> 
> So any mistakes are my own. Hope this seems somewhat reasonable and a little realistic. Feedback always welcome.

TW: graphic descriptions of bodily harm

John sighed, looking down at the woman passed out on his doorstep. Dollops of blood everywhere, including the door and frame. You hadn’t tried to ring the bell. 

He briefly wondered should he phone the authorities. 

Then he caught sight of the light pink shirt beneath your jacket, the tight grey skirt torn at the seams. A member of administration? 

John knew he couldn’t get the police involved, probably not even Jimmy who looked after him in this neck of the woods.

Confused but unwilling to leave you wounded, he hoisted you up on his shoulder in a fireman carry and brought you inside. You were not an obvious threat anyway. 

Taking you to a hospital never even crossed John’s mind once he saw the remnants of your uniform. There were no hospitals, no steady health care or benefits when you were a member of the underworld.

The former assassin took you to the downstairs bathroom and lay you in the white tub. More blood. 

This was going to be a hell of a clean up.

Dog followed him, snout in the air, sniffing both curious and wary of the visitor. John told the dog to stay right at the threshold of the bathroom. 

The last thing he needed was canine help. 

Dog sat, head cocked to the side, watching his master wondering why they were out of bed and why it wasn’t morning. 

Your outfit was torn already, so John started with it. The jacket slipped easily off your shoulders. He cut the blouse and skirt down the middle with his pocket knife, peeling the fabric away. You had taken a savage beating, blue and violet bruises littered your paling skin, obscuring some of your tattoos. 

In his assessment, he tried not to notice your undergarments or your figure. John knew he would have to check beneath your lingerie for wounds and weapons too. You had revealed no weapons he had to worry about so far, so he wasn’t too worried and moved that down his priority list. 

He couldn’t tell, with your undergarments in place, if you had been sexually assaulted too. John hoped not; he couldn’t imagine that trauma, added on to your beating. But the way someone had broken you, he had to wonder. 

Blood was slowly seeping from a few knife cuts to your chest and abdomen.A couple were already coagulated closed. You had either evaded the attack or they were done to scare you into revealing information. _ Superficial _ , he thought, touching them as you groaned but didn’t wake. 

The way your ribs were bruised, the former hit man figured at the very least they were cracked. He would wrap them, just to be safe than sorry.

Carefully, John removed the remainder of your clothing and stuffed everything into the nearest trash can, running the tap and warming the water. He grabbed a fresh wash cloth and started wiping the blood away, cataloging the damage. 

He blocked out everything but assessment and inventory. It was the only way he was going to get this done. 

Otherwise, he would dwell on the fact that the last time a woman had been naked in this house, in the tub, was Helen. And he didn’t think he could take that. His chest ached but he resisted the waves of impending sadness, focusing on the task at hand. 

You were real, still living for now, and needed his help. 

Your face was bruised and cut too, one eye blackened, lip badly split. Your septum piercing was missing a ball bearing on one side. If you had lip piercings, they had been yanked out during your assault. 

Your ear piercings were intact, strangely. He would have pulled the large plugs dangling in the stretched lobes, Wick thought darkly, make you really scream. Quickly, he shook that observation away, before he could wonder what you had sounded like, fighting for your continued existence.

How had you made it all the way to his house like this? He hadn’t heard a car. How had you walked up his drive like this? 

The one heel of your black patent pumps had snapped off, the other was missing a strap and the toe blown out. One ankle was badly swelling, threatening to devour the remaining strap. The flesh had stretched to resemble two grapefruit attached to a stick. He would have to wrap that too. 

Just to be sure, he checked the bottom of your feet for wounds. Scrapes, but nothing serious, no punctures or cuts. But you probably wouldn’t be able to walk on that ankle for a little while.

Whatever you were running from, he hoped it was worth it. A small flicker of something burned inside, a kinship of sorts, an appreciation for your spirit. 

He cut the remaining strap and removed your shoes, along with the black rimmed glasses with one frame cracked and an arm ripped off. Into the trash can these went as well, these broken parts of your uniform, your identity. 

You were completely bare, skin covered in goose flesh with a fine sheen of sweat. 

He wiped away the blood and makeup next then checked for any head trauma. There was a bad gash just above your hairline. John thought he might could suture it, if it came right down to it. Head wounds always bled the worst. 

Long fingers combed through your hair, but he didn’t see any other gashes or feel any bumps. You probably passed out from pain and exhaustion, instead of a concussion.

The once carefully styled bun was now loose, hair tumbling free around your face. Blood had seeped into the strands, but he couldn’t wash your hair with that wound, not until it had healed better. 

Around your neck was a thin red-purple line from a garrote. It would have almost gone unnoticed among your tattoos. Someone had wanted you dead and had done their best to kill you. 

When you weren’t beat to a pulp, John was sure you were probably pretty, older than you first appeared but still younger than him.Maybe 30s?

You were a puzzle of sorts, a mystery. You couldn’t speak to him and tell him what was going on. None of this explained what you were doing at his house in the middle of the night. But John figured he wasn’t going to get answers until you came around. 

At the very least, you were not there to attack him, but who knew what else was lurking in your wake. John would deal with that when or if it came up. 

Instead, he turned his focus to clearing the blood off as best he could then patching up your wounds with butterfly bandages and liquid flesh. Your chest, he wrapped with bandages to keep the ribs in place. You moaned and jerked during this process but didn’t fully come to consciousness. He quickly wrapped your ankle as well and put bandaids on anything else he saw that was still actively bleeding. 

When he was satisfied that you were patched and clean, John realized he had a new problem. 

Your clothes, what was left of them anyway, were in a bag. 

You couldn’t wear Helen’s, because you were different sizes and he wasn’t willing to let go yet, even though she hadn’t worn them in months. 

His clothes would have to do. He left you for a moment, hurrying upstairs to the bedroom to find a shirt, briefs, and pants. As an afterthought, John grabbed socks to keep your feet warm. 

Dog followed along, hoping this was a game and then being disappointed when his master went back to the bathroom.

John carefully dressed you, trying not to jostle you around, especially your ribs.It was difficult, especially since you were passed out and couldn’t help.Your skin was slick, clammy. 

The former hitman did his best in avoiding your breasts as he slid the oversized shirt down to cover your waist. The briefs and pants proved harder. 

Even though you weren’t conscious, you still put up a fight. You jerked your legs, twisting, trying to get away. You moaned and coughed.

“Hey,” he said quietly, placing a hand on your clammy forehead. You ceased after a second. “Shhhh.” Just as he would a frightened animal.

When he was sure you were quiet, John tried again. The fabric of the briefs slid easily up your thighs; he tried not to touch your bottom, but his fingers brushed over the soft skin. 

You jerked away, slipping down in the tub. John didn’t try the pants again. He would settle for more blankets.The socks rolled easily over your chilled feet. 

John lifted you out of the tub, bridal style, carrying you to the spare bedroom upstairs right down from his own.It had hardly been used in months.He lay you carefully on one side of the big bed long enough he could turn down the sheets, then slipped you between the crisp linen. 

Long fingers tucked the fabric around you, making a cocoon of warmth.You shivered and murmured but relaxed as you warmed up.John made sure you were propped up on the pillows so you could breathe. 

Dog, happy to have something he could do, jumped up on the bed and curled up near your legs. 

“Down,” John commanded.Dog simply looked at him as if he hadn’t understood, then closed his eyes. 

You didn’t seem particularly bothered, your breathing more even now. 

John gave up; it was too late to argue.He retreated downstairs to clean everything up.Dog would alert him if something was wrong, John figured. 

A bucket of cleaner later, John had removed all of the rich ruby dollops of your blood from the door, the floor, and the tub.He hesitated in throwing away your uniform.Perhaps there were some clues yet to be revealed. 

He searched through the pockets of your coat and found gloves, tissues, and keys.There was a security clearance badge with your name and picture. 

“______,” he said softly.He didn’t know if it was your real name, but it suited you. 

John studied your picture.You looked familiar somehow. 

“_____,” he said again, tucking the ID into his sweatpants pocket.Your name burned in his mouth. 

Your other clothes were little more than rags now.Your coat might could be salvaged.He put it into a separate bag for dry cleaning. 

The cleaning complete, John headed back upstairs.Dog perked his ears when his master approached, but didn’t move. 

“Traitor,” John chuckled softly.He pulled a plush chair over closer to the bed and settled in with a nearby book to watch you through the night. 


	3. When we fall asleep, where do we go?

Flashes of light, intense pain.Someone’s fist, rapid Russian about something not important now.Wick’s door.

“Baba Yaga,” you moaned.You tried to open your eyes, more blinding light, more moving shadows.More sleep. More nightmares. “Baba Yaga.”

  
**

John heard the Russian nickname.He heard it several times throughout the night from you.You didn’t Americanize it either.John had that feeling again, as he watched you settle into sleep once more, that you were familiar to him. 

Most of what you said was jibberish, but every now and again he caught Russian phrases he recognized but hadn’t heard in a long time, dance instructions, “art is pain.” 

Not since he was just Jardani.

“Hey,” he said, placing a large hand on your wrist, taking a moment to marvel at how his hand seemed to swallow you up.You stilled when he touched you. 

John tried out the name from your card and your head turned towards him, eyes trying to open and focus.After a few seconds, he feared it was too much on you just yet.He settled for releasing your wrist and just patting your hand. 

Dog whined because your legs jerked a few times; the canine settled his head over the covers on your legs and the movement stopped.

The former hitman’s gaze fell on a simple gold band with three tiny diamonds set in the top resting neatly on the ring finger of your left hand. 

Married, John realized, looking at his own gold band, then twisting the jewelry out of nervous habit. 

Could you have been running from a spouse?

Sure, like any couples John and Helen had fought.He had gotten mad at her, her at him, which all seemed so trivial now.John laughed and tried to catch the tear before it rolled down his cheek. 

But John had never felt the murderous rage that some of their friends had seemed to experience.He had never felt the Wick side come out for Helen, that dangerous part he kept locked away.

Perhaps your spouse had tried to kill you. 

Or maybe, it was a random mugging after all. 

Or maybe, Wick thought, someone wanted information they were sure you had, thought they could bully you into giving it up.The cuts, the strategic bruises...

But a spouse would go for your face, John thought.He, or she, would want to destroy the best parts of you, make you dependent upon them. 

John’s head hurt and he leaned back in the chair again.The clock beside the bed read 5:56 in big letters.He was usually up around this time for his morning routine. 

Dog was sleeping, nestled against your warmth, clearly not asking to go outside. 

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. 

At 6:00, he got up and went through his usual routine, leaving Dog asleep with you. 

By 7, John was back upstairs beside the bed. You woke enough that he could get a little Ibprofin down your throat before you passed out again. 

Sighing, he sat back down in the chair and picked the book back up.He was nothing, if not patient. 


	4. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the love so far on this story! Please, keep it coming!
> 
> A little more backstory. Next chapter, the reader will stay awake longer and get out of bed.

When youreally woke next, bright daylight flooded the room from huge, floor to ceiling windows.It took a few seconds for the pain to kick in. 

You couldn’t even begin to figure out what hurt the most, as you looked around, trying to get your bearings. 

There was a man sleeping in a chair nearby. 

Not just any man, you realized. 

John Wick.

He looked so different, so vulnerable, so human. 

Dog, sensing you were awake, sat up with a languid yawn before sniffing the length of your legs.Dog decided quickly that you were another human who could play with him, so he tried licking your face. 

“Nngh,” the little involuntary noise burned your throat as your hands came up to defend yourself.

“Down,” came John’s deep voice from the chair. 

John Wick was up in an instant, distracting Dog away from you.He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching for a glass of water and a bottle of pain medication. 

“Take these,” he told you softly, shaking two pills out in his hand. 

You didn’t hesitate, swallowing them down as quick as possible with your swollen throat.Even the water didn’t alleviate the pain. 

To your credit, you hadn’t cried.The Director had taught you that eventually, after many broken toes and fingers, forcing you to dance through the pain. 

Of course, the pain currently lancing through your body was much different from a broken toe or finger. 

“Thanks,” you croaked. 

“Welcome, ______,” John said, placing the bottle on the nightstand again. 

You simply looked at him.You figured he would go digging, discover who you said you were to the rest of the world. 

“Is that what you go by?” John asked, more to sate his own curiosity. 

“Yes.That is my name, no hiding,” you rasped. 

The two of you sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. 

John seemed hesitant; you could tell by the way he clasped his hands together, twisted the ring on his finger. 

“You’re wondering,” you swallowed thickly, “what I’m doing here.”

“Yes,” John nodded. 

You paused.What were you doing here?It had seemed like such a good idea when you had been on the very edge of death.It had been important. 

Instead of answering, a lump formed in your throat and hot tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. 

“Oh, no,” John said.He left the room for a moment, though he didn’t think you noticed, to retrieve some tissues. 

Dog, sensing that he might of use, threw his front paws over your lap and made high pitched keening noises to match your own, bobbing his head in sympathy. 

Automatically, your hand came to rest on Dog’s silky gunmetal grey head.Dog was most pleased with this development, as his usual master only gave him pats intermittently.Dog moved his head beneath your hand, eager for touch. 

John pressed tissues into your other hand.You curled them in your fist but didn’t use them.John had figured this might happen, so he grabbed more from the box left after the funeral, and tried to clean your face. 

The pain medicine would take effect soon.His need for answers had outweighed his concern. 

Slowly, he watched as Dog stopped keening and settled across your lap, and your eyes dried up. 

“I’m,” he paused, your good eye now red and puffy looking at him, “sorry.”

You moved your hand, waving off his apology. 

“I’m sorry,” you hiccuped.You had never been a beautiful crier.“I know you’re retired.”

John nodded. 

“I don’t need you to kill anyone for me.” 

Well, that was not what he was expecting. 

“Is anyone going to come here?” He asked, wondering if he had packed away his old life too soon.

“No.He believes I’m dead,” you sobbed. 

“Then why me?”The former hit man crossed his arms over his chest.

“Everyone knows not to mess with you. I ask for sanctuary.”In Russian you added, “The path to paradise begins in Hell.”

John felt a shiver of familiarity.

The Director. 

“You’re Ruska Roma,” he said, sinking heavily into the nearest chair. 

It hit him, why you looked familiar.You weren’t an assassin; you had been a dancer.He had seen you in his mother’s productions when he occasioned home as a much younger man.You couldn’t have been much more than a girl then. 

You had known of John Wick, when he was ‘Jardani’ to your adoptive mother.He was her star pupil, the one she compared everyone to, her success story. 

The director had saved you from a life of being sold from one man to another.This past abuse had only plagued your nightmares, which had been few and far between.But now...?

You felt the tight lid you had kept on everything was threatening to blow off like a pressure cooker. 

“I am,” you said.After your cry, you were getting very sleepy again.You didn’t know if it was the cry or whatever John had given you moments before. 

The former hitman ran his fingers through his hair and let out a breath, eyes closed.You wondered, briefly, if his hair was soft. 

Your tired body began to sink back into the pillows and mattress, eyes heavy with sleep again.You didn’t think you wanted to know what John had given you, but you were certainly painless now. 

“Sleep,” John said, but his voice was muffled.You thought it best to just close your eyes for a little while.You knew, deep down, that you were safe.That feeling of surety from the night before had returned: everything was going to work out. 

The former hitman watched you sink slowly into oblivion.The leftover medication from his exploits at The Continental was coming in handy. 

“We have plenty of time,” he said, more to himself because your breathing was deep and even. 

Dog, sensing that you were beyond adoring him, decided to readjust to stretch out at your side.There was a tiny twinge in his bladder, but he hated to leave you alone, especially since you had stroked his head in that way his current master couldn’t understand. 

“Come on, boy,” John said, seeing an opportunity to handle the basic needs of his pet.

Dog looked at him, big brown eyes wide with confusion, tilting his head and making a huffing noise through his nose. 

“I give up.”John knew he had lost a small battle.Hopefully, there would not be war all over his floor as a result. 


End file.
